Best of Times
by chezchuckles
Summary: A Worst of Times companion. Epilogue of sorts. for Julie. Happy Birthday! you asked for it. COMPLETE at 3 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Best of Times**

happy birthday Sandiane Carter! I love you, Jules : )

* * *

><p>I've been searching, for a couple words<p>

They could grow wings and fly like birds

Course I know it sounds absurd

But when you're in love, all the lines get blurred

-I Hope This Gets To You, The Daylights

* * *

><p>He has scars.<p>

Truth is, so does she. Hers are deeper, where she can hide them with her own skin, while his are on the surface, where he can't hide them. They make people wince, or edge around him, or pat him on the shoulder, or take his hand. He is a good enough and kind enough and charming enough person to let it wash right over him.

The scar at his throat is a purple-tinged black now. Like a tattoo gone wrong, looping around his neck where Tyson strangled him. Fat like a snake. She'll brush her fingers over it, kiss it, reclaim every inch of his skin for him, for herself.

It doesn't seem to bother him at all, but he's a guy. Maybe they don't see scars the same way. Maybe it's a testament to fighting and surviving, fighting and living to see another day. A badge of pride.

For her, it's a mark of failure. How she couldn't save him from Jerry Tyson. And some other, darker things she doesn't have the courage to look at yet.

Castle is at physical therapy on the other side of this door, but she won't disrupt his session just because she's back to that free-floating anxiety. She'll stay in the waiting room, read this magazine (or at least flip through it and pretend). She will make herself better than this, force herself.

His dislocated shoulder is now back in place; the surgery was successful, no problems; and the therapy was minimal. He's not at PT for the shoulder though.

He's here for his hands, his formerly mangled fingers. The last therapy session he'll need. Hopefully.

Castle has wide, angry scars at the side of every digit on his left hand, and three on his right. Six broken fingers, two broken thumbs. The surgery to straighten and set all those tiny metacarpals was four hours long, but the surgeon was at the top of his game.

She wants it to be over with already, the whole terrible ordeal. She wants those scars to just be interesting scars, not a memory of horror and pain and terror. She doesn't want to wake in the middle of the night with it trapped in her throat, doesn't want to wander downstairs to his study and see him sitting in front of the laptop flexing his fingers but not writing.

Kate glances at her watch. Maybe ten minutes left-

The door opens and it's Castle. He's got his head turned back to say one last thing to his physical therapist; from his profile, she can see the pasty white of his face, the drying sweat on his forehead. She stands, drops the magazine back to the table.

Castle turns and catches sight of her, beams that huge, ridiculous smile. She can't help smiling back, some of the worry melting. He steps in towards her and catches her by the shoulders, curling his fingers - _curling_ them - around her scapulae and pressing his mouth to hers.

She closes her eyes to the feel of it, him, tastes the sweat, the work on his lips.

"Last session," he says, breaking away to grin at her. "He said I'm doing good. Just the home exercises."

"I can help you with those," she murmurs, giving him a smile back.

"Counting on it," he says, then releases her to step over to the front desk. He signs a few forms, pays his co-pay, and chats nicely with the woman behind the counter. Kate couldn't make small talk if her life depended on it, not right now, not today.

When Castle turns back to her, she hooks her arm through his and tugs him towards the door. He's still waving good-bye; his physical therapists have clustered near the outpatient exit to pat his back and wave and shake hands with him. Of course they do. Richard Castle can't help but make friends everywhere he goes.

Finally out in the parking lot, Kate has him to herself. She stops him on the sidewalk in front of her car and leans in to kiss the scar around his neck, just once, in a kind of farewell to that part of their lives. She won't do it again, feeling like this.

Castle cups her face in his hands, lifts her mouth for a better kiss, stealing her breath, her heart. She wraps her arms around his waist and holds on, her reserve of strength mounting, building, the longer his lips play across hers.

When he releases her, she feels good, better, certain that they're going to make it. Her anxiety of only five minutes ago has burned away like fog under the noon sun.

"You taking me home?" he whispers, stroking one finger down her cheek as if to prove he can. She closes her eyes and revels in it, that long and beautiful finger able to work independently of the others, able to caress her skin.

"I'm taking you home with me," she says back, hoping he gets her message.

She doesn't hover when he moves to open the car door, doesn't watch him angle the seatbelt into the lock, doesn't try to help him unfold his sunglasses and put them on. He's been able to do those things for awhile now, mostly, and if the movement causes him pain after a therapy session - and she knows it does - he won't say it, and she won't see it.

She's never been the type to hover. She wouldn't demean him now by hovering, even though something broken in her needs it, wants to hover, can't rest at night for the agony of wondering if he's all right.

"I thought we'd stop for pizza or lasagna or something," she says into the silence, pulling out of the clinic's lot and into traffic. It's an effort to keep her voice even, measured.

"Italian sounds great."

The physical therapist that Castle had wanted to see, the best one for his hands, wasn't in the city but north up I-87 in White Plains. It takes an hour if they're lucky, and she was late getting off work today. She was afraid she might make him wait, but driving like a cop had gotten her here on time.

"I thought. . .we could try that place we saw?"

"The one near the exit for the Botanical Gardens?" he asks, turning in his seat to look at her. She tries to ignore the curious glint to his eyes. She has to. . .she needs to keep it together.

"Yeah."

"It's not takeout. You want to go in?"

She bites her lower lip and sighs. "Don't you? You said-"

"No. I do. I want to go in. I feel like. . .crap right now, but by the time we get there, I'll be good."

She checks him out with a swift glance, then nods to herself. He does look okay. She knows the physical therapy is painful, stretching tendons and muscles that have atrophied or been repaired. Still. His exhaustion is palpable.

"If you're not good when we get there-"

"You'll know," he says darkly, working on a laugh.

She sucks on her lower lip to ease the sting, tastes blood again. She's got to stop doing that every time the tension or confusion or reluctance overtakes her. She's got scars from biting her lip.

From the passenger seat, Castle lifts his hand and settles it on her thigh, squeezing her knee, showing off again.

She tosses him a look, but he's just smiling knowingly.

She's missed his hands on her, curling around her, in her, and she's never had them in the first place. How crazy is that? They had one interrupted date, and then she fell into the Triple Killer case and came out long enough to discover the wreck of Castle's body behind his study door.

Her nightmares haven't decreased in either severity or frequency. Neither have his. Often they wind up finding each other around two or three in the morning, both of them having gravitated to his study, to the silence, to the place where she found him that terrible day.

"You wanna doze until we get there?" she says softly, bringing her hand away from the steering wheel to drop heavily over his on her knee. She curls her fingers around his mostly healed ones.

"No," he answers. "I wanna talk to you. I miss you."

She glances at him sharply. "I've been here."

"Yeah, but not. . .yeah." He shakes his head and looks out the window, dropping it.

Some of her anxiety builds back up, like rising flood waters in her guts. It's her fault; she knows that. She tried to plan it all out to the last second, but being late to his therapy session has put her off her game. And feeling his fingers curl around her face, cup her cheeks, that has too. In a good way.

Back to the plan.

"I haven't been here," she says softly, acknowledging it. Finally. "Six weeks, and I haven't really been. . .myself."

She can see Castle turn his head to look at her. At least if she's driving, she doesn't have to make eye contact, doesn't have to see it on his face.

"I've been. . .unable to get it out of my head," she admits.

"I know."

Of course he knows. How could he not? He sees her more clearly than she does herself. He's watched her walk into his study at two in the morning, seen her rub her eyes, unable to sleep, but exhausted.

"I went back to my psychologist, but it made it worse," she confesses.

"Oh."

He didn't know that, did he? No. She was careful to keep that close. "Being with you. . ."

"I make it worse?" he whispers.

She shakes her head, can't speak past the clench of sorrow in her chest. Her hand squeezes around his, still on her knee, and she takes a long, deep breath. "Any time you hit a wall, an obstacle, any time I can see you in pain. . .it makes it worse. But it's not you. It's just this. This."

She smooths her thumb over one of the scars and hopes he understands. Because she can't explain it better, and she's not sure she understands herself.

"Do I need to wear gloves and a turtleneck from now on?"

Kate hears the teasing in his voice; her relief washes over her in a tidal wave. She shakes her head again. So grateful for him. "I'm. . .here now."

"Stuff still in your head?"

She drops her shoulders on a sigh. "Well. Yes. But today it gets better."

"Is this a Detective Beckett Decree? You've laid down the law. You *will* be better today?"

She gives him a small smile, acknowledging the effort. "In part, I guess so. But this is also your last day of PT. And I-"

She stops; she wants that to be a surprise.

"You what?"

All the other things she wants to say, could say, kind of hinge on that surprise. So she can't say those things yet either.

She tries a different approach. "Don't you feel it too, though? That this is the start of the rest of it. Of the good stuff."

He laughs and his fingers around her knee squeeze; she feels the muscles in her thighs twitch in response, desire and reflex both.

"I feel it, Kate. Yeah."

She smiles back at him, admiring the green of his tshirt and thinking - she can't help it - thinking how good-

No. Wait. Patience, Kate.

"Are you leaving tonight?" he says, as if he can read her mind.

She hedges. Here again, they've approached the line of all the things she can't say yet. "You mean because today is the official first day of being out from under doctor's orders?"

"Yeah." His thumb brushes up and down her thigh. "Because you don't have to be my hands any more."

She made him a promise to be his hands for as long as he needed her. She's been there awhile now. Six weeks.

"We'll see," she says softly, hoping to dull the sharp edge of having no real answer.

He hasn't asked her stay. She's pretty sure he never will. And not because of himself, but because of her. Because she's not that kind of person; she's too strong-willed, too certain of herself. Or at least, he thinks she is.

She's had to make some decisions.

She still has nightmares. So does he.

* * *

><p>Rick watches Beckett's face as she drives, the late sunlight soft on her cheekbones, illuminating her lashes. He knows he's told her at least once that he loves her, but she's said nothing about it. She's spent six weeks in his guest room, half of almost every night sitting up in his study with him, and hours and hours of patient waiting on him.<p>

Of course, he's had his mother and Alexis. He would've been fine without her. He really would have. But there was something special about her bringing him coffee in the mornings (in a travel mug to keep it from spilling), or throwing together a protein smoothie in the blender for him, or typing out his emails on his laptop as he peered over her shoulder.

His mother helped him dress (sweats), but Kate found him in the middle of the night when he'd woken yelling. His mother kept up with which medication when, but it was Kate who texted, emailed, and called him from work all day long to talk theory, crack jokes, or ask what he was making for dinner (nothing for the first few weeks).

Kate.

The sun is setting now, limning the car with gold. He's as far over as he can get in the seat, just to keep his hand on her knee. They've kissed, they've touched, but he hasn't managed to feel good enough to ask her to his bed, good enough to face the rejection. Well, except for that one time, but that was because that night it was Kate who woke them all shouting.

She let him talk her down, in his study of course, leaning heavily against his shoulder, listened to his incessant chatter until she turned her mouth to his neck and kissed him there, along the rope scar.

She kissed him and brushed her fingers along it and her eyes went from dark and troubled to dark and needful in minutes. They got far, but not far enough. He wanted her to come back to his bed, but they ended up curled together on the couch in his study, falling asleep together. And from then on, nightmares led them there, camped out on his couch.

Now that his therapy is over with, he doesn't have any idea where she's going to end up, curled on his couch with him or alone in her apartment. Or some other place. _His bed. _She's been everything to him, almost everything, for six weeks and he has no idea what tonight will look like.

Well, actually, she wants to go to that Italian place he's mentioned a couple times before. Saying they should go. She was always too keyed up, too tense, to stop. She wanted to get home and shower, change clothes, get the day off her.

So the Italian place. And then, after that, he has no idea.

"Kate?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

She gives him a quick glance. "No thanks needed, Castle."

"Still."

She's silent for a moment; he can hear her thinking too hard.

"Kate. Still."

She nods. "I wanted to do it."

He'll take that. "What happened at the 12th today?" He leans heavily against the back of his seat, closes his eyes for a moment. He wishes she would just talk, fill the silence with her voice. When she talks, his rough edges smooth down, his exhaustion gets massaged away.

"Well," she starts, then laces their fingers together and brings their joined hands to her lips for a brief kiss. "Nothing happened really. I did paperwork. Esposito got called to be lead detective on a body. His first."

"Ooh, go Espo."

He opens his eyes to see the flicker of her smile. She's driving with her left hand low at the wheel, their joined hands against her stomach. He lifts his index finger and strokes it across her shirt, feeling the heat of her skin beneath the material.

She cuts her eyes to him and he smirks. _See what I can do? _He wants to kiss that beautiful, proud set to her mouth. Proud of him.

"Ryan helped. It was slow. The boys said to tell you they expect a Halo night."

"Yeah right. Ryan wanted Guitar Hero, didn't he?"

She quirks her lips and shrugs with one shoulder. "I might have told him that Guitar Hero was beyond your capabilities right now."

"You take that back!" he gasps, mock outrage filling his voice.

"I didn't know," she murmurs, brushing her thumb along the back of his hand. "You've been holding out on me."

He grins, some of his post-therapy weariness leaving him. "I wanted to surprise you."

She pulls her lip in between her teeth, but she's smiling wider at him now. "I'm surprised."

He strokes his finger higher along her stomach, feels the quiver of her abs under his touch.

He smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

She watches Rick's face as she turns the engine off and takes the keys out of the ignition. He still looks weary, and he's noticed the empty parking lot, so disappointment has settled lightly over his features.

As if he's okay with leaving and just driving home.

Kate can't help the smirk that plays on her lips when he turns to tell her _Ah well, next time. _She shakes her head at him and opens her door. "Come on, Castle."

"It looks closed."

She ignores that and gets out of the car, shuts the door softly behind her. When she steps up onto the sidewalk in front of Capp's Corner (of San Francisco, the sign boasts), Castle eases out of the car and follows her.

"The sign says they're closed," he says, that confused look suffusing his face.

"I know," she says simply, and pulls out her phone, sending a quick text. She's had the text in her phone since the waiting room, ready to go, ready to hit send the moment she had him here.

"Kate?"

She says nothing, just waits.

The door swings open and a man in pressed navy pants, a startling white shirt offers them both a smile, a handshake. Kate is pleased that the handshake doesn't even make Castle hesitate; he smiles back and looks to her for help.

"Mr. Burnett?" she says, smiling.

"Call me Capp."

She laughs. "They told me you'd say that. Not your name."

"No, but it makes people feel better to think it is. Still, it *is* my family name. Cappelli. My uncle has the original restaurant in SF-"

"Seriously?" Castle twists around and glances to the sign, then back with a grin. "I *have* been there. North Beach, right?"

Mr. Burnett, Capp, laughs and nods. "You got it. Little Italy."

"I knew it," he hisses at her, nudging her arm. "Awesome."

Of course, she knows that already. She called and asked about the connection because Castle only mentioned it a hundred times in the last three weeks, every time they'd come out here for another therapy session.

"You guys ready for dinner? Mama C, our cook, was pretty thrilled about your request, Ms. Beckett."

"Kate," she says with a warm smile, because every time she's talked to the people at Capp's, they've been like this - friendly and cheerful and untouched by darkness. He rubs his hands together and gestures them inside.

The restaurant is typically Italian, red and white checked tablecloths, olive oil and parmesan cheese on the table next to empty wine bottles with candles melted down over their necks. A table in the center of the room has a basket of bread she can smell from the door; she lets Capp take her coat and gloves and nods her head for Castle to take his coat off as well.

He glances at her, surprise and confusion giving way to a soft kind of happiness. And that, of course, always comes with his best smile.

She smiles back at him.

Capp takes Castle's coat. "I wanted to set you up by the windows looking out over the sunset, but Mama C said it's too drafty and moved everything to the middle. It's her food, so-" He shrugs as if to say _What can you do?_

Kate smiles, ducking her head. "I'm sure it's fine." She threads her arm through Castle's and lets Capp seat them.

Castle waits to sit until she's got her place, then he lowers himself across from her, a look of appreciation and amusement on his face, making his eyebrow arch, making that old scar above his left eyebrow dent like a dimple. The one that shows itself when he's especially pleased.

When he was six, he lost a race with a heavy piece of stage set from one of his mother's plays; the scar is there because no one took him to the hospital to get stitches - they were in the middle of an afternoon production. The stage manager bandaged it with electrical tape that Rick was then too afraid to take off until weeks later. He likes to recount the story and magnify the amount of blood there was.

"What did you do, Kate Beckett?" he asks her, his lips in a teasing frown of disapproval.

"I rented out the restaurant." She watches the pleasure spread across his features, the delight in his eyes.

"You did."

"I did."

"Um. Maybe I'm overlooking a really important anniversary. . .but why?"

She quirks her lips, lets him think for a moment that he really has missed an anniversary, and then she shakes her head. "You haven't missed anything. Except-"

"Except?" He looks taken aback that he might have missed anything at all.

She likes playing with him; he's so dramatic. His whole face reacts. "Except we never finished our first date, Castle."

His mouth drops open; he has nothing to say to that. She finds herself far more pleased than she should be.

"When did you arrange this?" he says, tilting his head.

"Mm, a month ago."

"A *month* ago?" he yelps, then lowers his voice and leans in. "Such confidence, Detective Beckett."

She grins at his line and helps him mirror their first-date's conversation. "Just hope."

"Were you wearing me down?"

She laughs, finding it a relief to hear her own laughter in the quiet of the empty, warm restaurant with the rich smell of bread in the air. "I didn't need to wear you down, Castle. I've already got you."

His lips spread in that full, beautiful smile that makes her breath catch.

"Touché, once again. You get all the points."

Just like then, as now, she slips her shoes off and slides her foot to his ankle, hooking it around the back of his leg as he grins wider and wider.

Everything she wants to say to him builds up behind her answering smile; she suddenly can't wait to tel him, can't let it go by-

"Castle?"

He raises an eyebrow, but Capp comes back out bearing huge, steaming plates of spaghetti, their appetizer before the main course. A meatball the size of a fist is heaped on top of the thin noodles; the sauce smells rich and mouth-watering.

Capp leaves the plates at their table and nods once to Kate with a wink, then makes himself discreetly vanish.

Castle digs into his plate immediately with a gusto she's not seen in him for awhile. Six weeks to be exact. He looks better; he looks like he believes her when she said this was a new start.

Of course, she's lost her moment to say the words, but she's starving now and the spaghetti smells so good. She eats a few bites, relishing the meatball's spice, the Italian seasoning, the tomato and garlic sauce. Castle is gulping his food down, practically moaning with delight.

She shakes her head at him with a smile, so very glad to see his enthusiasm back. Earnestly.

* * *

><p>Every time he lifts his head to look at her, Kate has her mouth partly open as if she's about to say something profound. Only she never does; she just smiles at him and goes back to her dinner.<p>

They've had a light salad and then broiled tomatoes with parmesan cheese and artichoke spread drizzled in olive oil. Amazing. Kate keeps up with him, though she eats far less than the serving size, but she grins and licks her fingers and jokes with him as he relishes every course.

He's just finished a story about his physical therapist's wife and her random texts during their sessions when Capp brings out lasagna to their table, family style. He places clean plates in front of them and bows out.

Castle grins at the huge casserole dish of lasagna and then glances up at Kate. "How did you. . .how did you do all this?"

She smiles back, bats his hand away from the serving knife and spoon. "Let me get it."

"I can use my hands-"

She silences him with a soft look. "Let me serve us both." She stands up and comes over to his side of the table, too close, nudging his shoulder, practically bending over him to cut into the lasagna.

He feels her chest brush the top of his arm, the heat of her body against his side.

She takes up the thread of their conversation as if nothing's happening. "After you mentioned it a second time on our drive home, I realized we were gonna have to come here."

"I can be persistent," he agrees, trying to keep his mind off the round shape of her hip. But he can't. He puts his hand at her waist as if to steady her, lets his thumb brush her hip bone.

"That you can," she murmurs, bringing a square of lasagna to his place with the serving utensils, then reaching back to cut herself a piece as well. "So I called and said I wanted to rent the place for the night. This night. . .well, late afternoon, specifically. Capp's people have been really helpful with getting this whole thing set up."

"A month," he laughs.

"I didn't want just a repeat of our date, even though it was pretty great-"

He grins at that, pride swelling in his chest, and she rolls her eyes and leans towards her own plate to serve herself. His hand is still on her hip and she hesitates at his side.

"And I thought it would be. . .romantic. Here."

Because she knows he likes the grand gestures, that romance matters to him. And he's pretty sure that somewhere in there, it matters to her too. "This is perfect. And the food is amazing. But. . .how are you paying for this?" He wonders if he can maybe slip a thousand dollars into her bank account without her noticing.

Yeah, probably not.

She shrugs at him, but doesn't move enough to dislodge his hand at her waist. "I have some money, Castle. It's my treat this time."

"And next time?"

She smirks at him, moves to her own seat. The touch gone. "Next time you can pay."

"I'll hold you to that."

She pushes her hair back behind her ear. "You won't have to hold me to anything. I'm already here."

It's amazing how much she's saying without saying much at all.

* * *

><p>Kate takes her last bite of lasagna and leans back, watching Castle from under her mostly closed lashes. She feels warm and a little drowsy and a lot turned on.<p>

He's been trying to seduce her all dinner long, not so much with touch, though there is that, but with words. Stories. The sun has long set, and the darkness outside is obdurate with stars. She can see them even from the middle of the restaurant, even with the lights of suburbia glowing around them.

"Is there dessert, or can I take another helping?" he says.

Kate turns her head back to him. "There's dessert."

"Ohh, yummy." Then that childish delight is swept from his face and he keeps hold of the serving spoon to give her a saucy look. "Unless *you* are dessert. In that case, I may need another piece to keep my strength up."

She presses her lips flat to keep the grin from destroying the look she's trying to cultivate. "Let's just say that I'm not your *first* dessert."

His eyes grow dark and all trace of childishness is gone. Her whole body thrills to that look.

Capp interrupts again with tiramisu that reeks of brandy and coffee and oh, chocolate. He disappears just as quickly. She grabs one of the forks and spears the dessert, giving Castle a look.

"There's just this one, Castle," she murmurs, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "Pull your chair next to mine so we can share."

That's not just surprise on his face, that's desire. Arousal. She's seen it banked in him before, but never seen it flame to life before her. Not like this. She keeps her eyes on him as he drags his chair around to her side, picking up the second fork. She watches his fingers handle it deftly, without even a moment's hesitation, and it's the most beautiful sight in the world.

The tiramisu is drizzled in chocolate, and chocolate shavings sprinkle the top. A coffee-flavored cream holds together the layers of cheesecake-like sponge cake. It is truly amazing. Capp's Mama has outdone herself.

"This is so good," she moans, and licks the cream from her fork. Coffee. Always does it. And chocolate. Best combination.

Castle's warm hand on her thigh startles her for an instant, but when her eyes dart to his, he's watching her mouth, her tongue against the fork, and she realizes she's pushed too far, unknowingly.

Well. Not too far. Just. . .further than she expected to go right now.

She touches her tongue to the corner of her mouth, licks away cream, and Castle's hand squeezes her thigh, his thumb rubbing up and down, his pinky finger twitching, making her stomach flutter.

"You are so. . .hot," he says finally, shaking his head. "I have no words. You just. . ."

He drops his fork and leans in, brushes his mouth over hers lightly at first, then takes her top lip between his and works the cream from the corner of her mouth. His tongue sweeps her bottom lip, his taste like rich coffee and Italian seasoning; a hand is caressing her cheek so very softly, his fingers at work.

She loves the feel of his fingers against her cheek. She can't get enough of their soft tips, the curl of his index finger, or the ease with which they stroke her skin.

And then his mouth opens over hers, she feels it - everything - vibrating in his body, and she pulls back.

Not yet. He was going to push it further, and she wants the time to be exactly right. She's got it all planned.

"This dessert first," she reminds him, putting a finger to his lips when he unconsciously leans in for more.

He kisses her finger, traps her wrist to kiss the pulse fluttering there, then leans forward in his chair with her hand trapped to his chest.

"All right. You're in charge." He brushes his thumb over the back of her hand. She sees the scar around his throat convulse as he swallows. It does something to her sense of balance, dampens her joy just a little bit.

"I have more to show you," she says finally, needing to give him something more than a hot kiss at a dinner table, even if the tiramisu is amazing and the lasagna like homemade.

"You have more to show me?" And an eyebrow lifts, a quick perusal of her wardrobe, her lack of open buttons at the top of her dress shirt _pop a couple more,_ and she grins back.

That's what she was going for. A little sexiness, a lot of humor. A way to regain their balance and start anew.

She slowly pops a couple of buttons on her dress shirt with one hand and a smirk, leaning over to brush her lips along his cheek.

"I have lots more to show you, Rick Castle."


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't see her pay the guy anything, so he doesn't even have a chance to waylay Capp and take the check. Or slip the man a tip. Nothing.

They stand outside the restaurant for a moment, Kate shivering a little but not moving towards the car, and then Castle figures it out and wraps his arms around her, tugging her in close. He presses his warm mouth to her lips, begins heating her up.

She slides her hands inside his coat, her fingers find his waist, burrowing up under his tshirt to his skin. He flinches at the cold shock of her fingers, but he doesn't move away. Her mouth is dark and heady with chocolate and coffee; his fingers find her hair and curl in it, holding on to her.

After a minute, she breaks away, pressing her mouth to his cheek in reluctance, then she smooths his shirt, pulls closed the lapels of his coat.

"There's more," she says softly, and tugs on him to get him moving.

In the car again, he can't imagine what more there could be, except that sultry promise of her being his dessert. Which would require that she sleep in *his* bed though, and he doesn't see that happening. In fact, he almost can't imagine her staying the night.

He's had her under his roof for six weeks, and now he can't imagine her staying.

Hasn't she said that she's always got one foot out the door? He realizes they've been living like that for the last six weeks. Just in case his hands never rehabilitated, just in case she woke up and didn't want this life.

Still. More to come, she said. And she took him on a date.

He finds his lips are smiling quite without warning.

The rest of the drive is silent, even though he throws out ample conversation starters. They all fizzle with her one-word answers. At first, it makes him sad, but then he begins to realize that she's nervous, and having trouble keeping her mind on what's happening inside this car.

And that's interesting.

He tries out a few more topics, finds them all insufficient to hold her attention. She's thinking ahead. Thinking about that _more_ no doubt, and he's suddenly intensely curious as to what it might be.

She said she doesn't want to recreate their first date, but she is giving it back to him, that time. Where were they when they got the call about the body? When the call interrupted them. In a taxi, if he remembers. He held her hand, he had gotten really stupid and admitted to wanting to show her the world and call her every night like a lovesick puppy, and then she'd said _Get us a cab, Castle._

He still doesn't know what would have happened after that.

So he's clueless about what comes next. She refused to dance with him, that night, even though he really had thought he'd make her. Wear her down. And while he would love to dance with her tonight, he's not sure he's up for it. Physical therapy sessions are grueling, and he's on limited reserves of energy as it is.

When they park a block from his loft, he's surprised. And maybe, at first, a little disappointed. Then he remembers that she's as jumpy and nervous and distracted as he's ever seen her, and that. . .cheers him up.

So whatever is left, it's inside his apartment. He gets out of the car with a little more cheer.

When she locks the car doors, he slides his hand around hers and laces their fingers together, brushing his thumb over the soft part of her skin. They held hands like this on their first date too. And in the cab, even though he never made that final trip to her mouth, she'd let him kiss along her jaw, her neck; she'd made that little helpless sound that kicked the guts right out of him.

Tonight, as he strokes the inside of her wrist with his thumb, she looks so pleased, and he realizes that she was worried his hands wouldn't heal, that they'd be stiff and malformed for the rest of his life.

To be honest, he had moments where he wondered. But the surgeon was spectacular and the physical therapy intense, so if he has movement in his fingers at all, it's because of those two things.

And also, perhaps, the overwhelming motivation to be able to touch her like he wants to.

"You putting me to bed?" he asks softly, smiling at her with his eyes as they walk towards his building.

"Hmm, something like that," she flirts back, and her lips are pressed into that hidden, secret smile that he loves to catch. He's never seen her give that smile to anyone else.

He laughs and wishes there were a way to walk closer to her, to hold her even as they walk, because he doesn't want to *not* get to the _more_ part of this evening, but he also wants to take her against him and hold her, just for a minute. Just until the overwhelming tenderness leaves him. He loves this woman, and here she is with him. Here she's been the last six weeks.

But he's trapped in it too; it fills up his chest until he can barely breathe, spilling out into his guts, pouring out of his fingers, beaming from his skin. Like molting. Like regenerating. Making him a new man.

He stops them at the crosswalk, even though it says walk, and catches her up in his arms, tight, lifting her up just a little because even in those shoes, she's not quite as tall as him. He buries his nose into her hair and breathes in, replacing the stale air of his lungs with the fresh mint-cherry-winter smell of her. Another breath because it is cold out here and he can feel her shiver.

And then he can breathe out again. Even as she laughs softly against his temple, her lips brushing his hairline.

He puts her down. "Okay, now I'm ready."

She smiles at him like he's crazy, but it's still a smile, and she takes his hand in hers again. They manage to walk a little closer this time, and into his building, out of the cold. He nods to the doorman, smiles, and pushes the call button for the elevator.

While they wait, he gathers his courage, turns her to face him, and wraps her in his arms again, purposeful, pushing her limits. He hasn't pushed her for six weeks. Or at least, not since he got off the pain meds. She doesn't exactly snuggle, never Kate, but she does curl an arm against his chest and thread her finger through the top button hole on his coat. Warm and lithe against him, the angles of her bones meeting his knees, his hips, his ribs. He can feel the curl of her finger against his chest.

The elevator opens and she steps back, but holds on, dragging him after her as she gets on. He likes being. . .hooked? He likes her like this, proprietary and close; he likes this nervous-determined side to her. The one that doesn't know how things will play out despite her having a master plan, the one that wants everything to go right but knows it can't possibly.

She leans over to press his floor, then unhooks her finger, smooths her hand down his coat as they ascend. At their stop, he doesn't pay attention to her fumbling in her pocket because he's trying to work his keys out around his phone. He pauses in the hallway, finally fishes them out, and finds her already at his door, unlocking it.

He stands there, thunderstruck, as she pushes the door in and gives him a slow, crafty smile.

"Where. . .how did you get a key?" It sounds harsher than he mean it to, laced with surprise like that.

Nervousness flickers in her face for a second; he stalks forward, noticing that his loft key is on her key ring. Not just loose in her pocket, but on her key ring. In six weeks, she hasn't had a key; she steadfastly refused to take the spare from him until he gave up trying (giving up coincided with lucidity and a lack of pain medication).

She takes it out of the door and closes her fingers around it, as if to hide it from him. Protect it. "Alexis. I asked her first."

"Oh. She give you the spare or make you a copy?"

"She made me a copy," she says, and her voice is so. . .hesitant and fierce at the same time, that he knows there's something here he's missing. He just doesn't know what.

"Great," he smiles, shrugging his shoulders at her. He wants her to have a key. He tried to get her to take one. So. . .why is she looking at him like that?

He sheds his coat in the entryway and moves to hang it up in the coat closet; Kate is right behind him with hers. A flutter in his stomach warns him first, but he doesn't understand the warning, the message.

He opens the hall closet, the coat closet, and it's stuffed full. He finagles a couple of hangers out of the jumble, hangs up both of their coats, and it hits him.

He just hung her coat up in his *full* coat closet.

He's hung her coat up in there before, all six weeks of hanging up her coat (when he could), but-

Castle swings around to look at her, confusion making his stomach churn. She's not smiling any longer, and the intensity in her eyes is nearly painful. She knocks his hand from the door and gently shuts the closet.

"There's more," she says, and puts her hands on his hips, nudging him back, turning him towards the hall.

His heart pounds, but he turns and heads back to his bedroom, suddenly needing to see it, needing proof, practically racing there.

His eyes flicker over the room. Another pillow on the bed. A wooden box on the bedside stand. A littler box open on his bureau; he can see the gleam of silver earrings from here. He darts to the closet door, throws it open with his heart in his throat.

Her stuff is in there, all kinds of stuff, dresses he's never even seen before, work pants, jackets that didn't fit in the coat close, blouses and shirts and sweaters, soft and silky and appealing, and damn, a lot of shoes. Shoes still in plastic tubs, shoes piled all along the top rack winding around the closet, shoes tumbling down into the floor.

Castle grins, swallowing the lump in his throat, turns back around to her, unable to control the intense longing that swells in him. She's stiff and anxious and her eyes telegraph an SOS, but he throws his arms around her and squeezes, too tight, laughing, curling a hand around the back of her head so he can kiss her even as she comes willingly into his embrace.

"You have a lot of shoes," he says into her mouth.

She chokes on a laugh, sounding way more relieved than she ought to be. Why is she relieved? Like he would ever ever refuse her space in his closet.

"I asked Alexis first," she says back, her palm at his cheek as he finally lets her slide down his body, her feet back on the floor. "She said it was probably the only thing you wanted for Christmas anyway."

"She's a smart girl."

Her forehead rests against his; he realizes with a laugh that she basically asked his daughter for his hand. Well, as close to it as possible.

"Castle?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not getting rid of my shoes."

He laughs again. "No, no. I love your shoes." He laughs again. "Well, that sounded dirtier than I meant it to."

She doesn't laugh back, and her fingers are tight at his neck. "Also, everything's not here. Just. . .enough to make a statement."

"We'll move it all."

"All?"

"We're doing more than making a statement, Katherine Beckett."

She sighs softly against him and her body finally relaxes. "Castle."

"Mm?" he murmurs, moving just enough to press his lips to her cheekbone, to the beauty mark under her eye, the one at her cheek, the line of her nose, finally her soft, warm, coffee-flavored mouth.

She turns her head slightly to break the kiss. "There's more."

"I don't know what more there could be," he says, leaving enough room between them so that he can see her eyes.

She opens them finally, giving him a look he can't decipher. But he wants to. A look of what? Thoughtfulness, judging by the way that tendon in her forehead jumps. Determination, by the set of her jaw. And. . .that final part he can't figure out, with the diamond hardness in her eyes and the light.

"Here's the rest," she says, and he sees her square her shoulders as if facing the firing squad. "I wouldn't do this. . ." She gestures to the closet behind him, the room. "If I didn't love you."

Didn't love-

"What?" he says stupidly, stunned.

"I did this because I love you," she says again and takes a step back from him.

"Wait. Where are you going?" he says in a rush, grabbing her and pulling her her back against him, his arms tightening around her back and shoulders. He huffs out a laugh. "You love me. I. . .I love you, too, Kate. I want you here; you know that. But if you don't want to, I don't want to *make* you-"

"I want to." She shakes her head against his neck as if she knows. And she does. He's told her before, under duress basically, and then again while drugged. She knows. She's known and now-

"You moved in with me," he says, grinning, and not even at her because his chin is on her shoulder, his whole body curled around hers. "You moved into my *room* with me."

She grumbles, and shoves at him with the most fake frown he's ever seen. "Okay, Castle. Man up, yeah?"

He straightens, determined to wipe that hint of disapproval out of her voice (however teasing). He crowds her, cradles her face between his palms, his fingers sliding through her hair. Her cheekbones are sharp angles under his hands and when he leans in, her mouth is already opening to his.

He meets her, hot, wet, rich, sweeps his tongue past hers even as she sucks on his bottom lip, her hands at his waist and moving up his sides, intimate and arousing and definitely moving faster than he is. He uses every trick he knows, slow and thorough and devastating, and yet she's still standing, giving it back to him, pressing closer.

Castle slides his hand to her neck, down her back to pull her against his hips, growling at the hitch in her breath when they meet.

That did it.

He lets her break away, waiting, as patient as a night hunter, his lips brushing her jaw, her cheek, that spot at her neck as she breathes raggedly, out of rhythm, against his hairline. He nips at her earlobe, lets his mouth soothe the skin, tugs on it again with his teeth as she makes that little sound, part gasp, part keen.

"Man enough?"

She brushes her hands over his chest and down, tugging on his belt loops, pulling him into her. He growls and bites the skin behind her ear, at her neck, causing her hips to jerk against his.

"B-better," she musters, drawing in another sharp breath when he sucks her skin to his tongue.

"Mm-hm, what I thought," he mutters, dark and aroused and scenting her. He bends his knees and lifts her up, carries her backwards a couple of steps and drops her on the bed.

She doesn't laugh, just stares him down as she gets to her knees, attacking his belt, lifting her chin to kiss him again, biting his lip in her rush, the feel of his belt sliding right out and tugging him into her so that he leans to the side, catches himself on her shoulders, pushing her back.

She looks up at him, eyes so dark and full that he can't breathe. "Take it all off, Castle."

His heart stops.

He sinks to his knees beside her on the bed, kisses her hard, pulls back suddenly. He has to - has to memorize this. The look in her eyes, the serious heat, the intensity; the way her fingers slide his shirt up; the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes shallowly, the almost painful need etched into her face.

She gives him the moment, her movements still, her eyes waiting for his.

Suddenly, it seems so very important to see her smile, for him to make her happy again and no longer worried and sad, no longer one foot out the door just in case, but with him, diving in with him.

"Kate," he whispers.

Her eyes regard him.

"God knows I love you, but seriously, Kate. We're gonna have to organize that closet."

Her lips split wide, almost against her will; she rolls her eyes and sits back on her feet, her laughter ripped free. She presses her hand to her cheek and shakes her head at him.

"I know you're worried about your precious designer suits, Castle. But I'd rather think about getting all your clothes off. Closet organization can come later. Much, much later," she says, her voice dipping low, her eyes burning into him.

One last time. "A messy house is a sign of a-"

She silences him with a hot mouth on his, her tongue pushing past his teeth, her hands tugging at his hipbones. Just when he gets into it, she pulls back, puts the back of her hand to her mouth with those alluring, dark eyes. Those Kate eyes.

"Quit stalling, Castle. I want _you._"

Only this time, some of that serious intensity has left her and more of the playful, smiling Kate is back. And that. . .he can do.

Yeah. In that sense too.

"Wanna help me with my home exercises?"


End file.
